Dreaming
by esama
Summary: Harry Potter has been in prison for over two years and now he's being released. The usual sort of Azkaban drabble. Or maybe not.
1. Harry

**Dreaming**

**Harry  
**

My name is Harry James Potter. Prisoner 300595-D. I was imprisoned on the 30th of May 1995, hence the identification number. It was imprisonment for a crime committed on the 24th of May 1995. Murder of Cedric Diggory. I was found guilty of this crime… because someone had to be punished. I was fourteen years old.

When they dragged me away on the 30th of June, they had had six days to get the prison ready for me. They had a cell specially made for me, because there had been a prison breakout in the year before and they didn't want it to happen again. Especially not with me, not with someone who was rumoured to become the right hand, if not the adopted son of the "the darkest wizard who ever lived".

In this cell, this… iron box with no windows, I have lived for countless days, countless weeks. I don't know for how long. Time has no essence when there is no windows and no light, when there is no way of measuring time. I don't care how long I've been here. I'm comfortable in my little box. In my little box I know that the four years I've spent in the magical world have been nothing but a silly childish fantasy. In this box… it's almost like I'm in my cupboard again, woken up after a long, strange dream.

Dementors make the difference, perhaps… They browse the area around my iron box constantly, sending their waves of mental agony to me. Anguish, suffering, torment… mental and magical torture as well as physical. I have always been thin, but not this thin. Not that my poor physical health matters any, I'm going to die in this box anyway. Nothing of it means anything anymore.

Sometimes I wonder about the world outside the dark, sometimes I wonder about the people I have met in the magical world. Hagrid, Malfoy, Ron, Hermione, Neville, McGonagall, Dean, Seamus, Dumbledore… Sirius… then the Dementors eat the memories I have and I only remember the betrayal. I turn my thoughts away from them. They don't matter. They were nothing but a fantasy.

I pull my hands. The chains jingle as the shackles cut into my wrists. Not only am I inside a box of iron, but I'm tied into the box with chains of iron. Shackles on my wrists, my ankles, my neck… they will ensure that even if the nonexistent door opens, I won't be able to leave my new home. The shackles have been keeping me sane I think. I pull my hands and listen to the sound of the chains in the darkness. The only sound I hear apart from my own screams.

I haven't screamed in a long time, though. I did in the first moments of darkness after the door vanished. I was hitting the metal walls with bloody fists, my own screams echoing in the cells along with the jingling. Echo, echo, echo… Let me out, let me see light, I'm innocent, I'm innocent… I'm innocent… but someone had to go to jail. I stopped screaming when I understood that. I haven't uttered a sound since, knowing how useless it was.

I'm not bitter. I'm in constant torment of unholy levels, but I'm not bitter at my friends or those I've known in the world of Wizardry. They were nothing but a sweet dream. It had to end. Everything ends, happiness before everything else. What they did was inevitable.

That is what I know to be true in my heart when I see red hot seams of square shaped door appear to the metal wall before the door is opened and silvery-blue light of _Lumos_ spell invades my darkness. It hurts, the light.

"Get up, prisoner. You've been cleared earlier this day. You've been found innocent. You're being released from the prison." Male voice says to me, the sound of the words echoing in the dark. I stand up, the chains jingling as I do so. The Auror steps forward and opens the shackles with his wand. They fall to the floor with loud clank-sound, one by one. As I'm being led into the binding, painful light, I wish to myself that I could've been able to keep the chains.

"Prisoner 300595-D." There are three Aurors here. The one who spoke before is reading from a scroll to me while the other two, both of whom look at me with wide and horrified eyes, stand beside him. "By the orders of the Minister of Magic, you will be immediately escorted to the Ministry of Magic, where you will be taken to a hearing. An investigation for your unjust punishment is held as we speak."

I follow them, one Auror at each side, trying to block out the light from my very sensitive eyes. The light is blinding me so that I can't see any better than I saw in the dark. Tears of pain are flowing down my cheeks because of the light. I don't care about the Ministry, or the hearing, or my unjust imprisonment, not as much as I care about the pain in my eyes. I don't like light anymore.

Blindly I reach for the ragged hem of my robes and take it to my hand. I think the Aurors are watching me as I rip a long shred off the already broken fabric. Then they gasp as I take it to my face and tie it over my eyes tightly to block everything out. I don't care. It's better this way. It wasn't like I had any choice of where I was walking to the begin with.

They don't speak. I'm being escorted through long corridors where the rough stone floor hurts the bare soles of my feet with every step I take. I feel the Dementors, a few of them are close by. They don't affect me like they once did, through. You could say that I have grown almost immune to their effect. I've dulled. Now I listen to the screams of my mother with a sad smile, not with screams of my own which once led to blacking out. I haven't had the luxury of unconsciousness in a long time.

Soon I feel a breath of clear, cold air on my face. We're outside now, and I'm breathing in the fresh air first time in what feels like many many years to me. The Aurors give me a chance to enjoy the feeling for a moment. Then I'm escorted down a stone staircase, and soon to something which feels like wood. It's the pier, it has to be. I can hear the sounds of the waves… they're breaking against the rocks of the shore and the poles of the pier… I haven't heard anything so beautiful in a long time.

I'm helped down and to sit on something hard. The surface rocks underneath me gently, so I must be in a boat. The boat rocks hard as the Aurors step down as well, and I feel the boat start to move. Back then the first time I sat on this boat, I didn't think it amusing, but now I do. You have to take a rowboat to get to high security prison. Azkaban is quite outdated.

The trip is long and silent. I only hear the sounds of the water hitting the sides of the boat, how the wood creaks as they steer it towards the main land and how my wardens breathe. Their breaths are strong even in this place. Mine are silent, they tend to be when you only take diminutive breaths. I can only breath small breaths, if I breath any deeper I'll feel pain on the right side of my ribcage. Broken ribs that healed poorly… probably.

Finally, the boat hits something and I can feel the Aurors moving as the boat rocks. I'm being helped up again, and then down another pier. "We're now at the Apparating point. Brace yourself, 300595-D." I don't. I enjoy the feeling of sinking as the Auror pulls me into the space or whatever there is between Disapparation and Apparation.

As I feel solid material underneath my feet, air so warm that it's almost hot closes in on me like a heavy blanket. I cough at the smell and weight of the air. We must be in a room with many people. I can feel that there are many eyes staring at me. I can feel their whispering before they silence.

"This… is Potter?" someone asks.

"This is prisoner 300595-D," the Auror who Apparated me answers in a strict voice. I feel my dirty hair being pulled aside and I know that the Auror is showing the lightning bolt scar to whoever is in the room. The room echoes with gasps and whispers for a second, and is completely silent again in the next.

"Very well then," a male voice I don't know says. "Prisoner number 300595-D, do you know why you have been brought here?"

I don't answer. I don't think my voice would work even if I tried to make it. I just bow my head slightly in answer and hope that it's enough. The man tries to continue, but I hear another voice interrupting. This voice I know. "Minister, please. Would you allow Harry to at least sit while he hears this? And why are his eyes covered?" It's Dumbledore.

"The prisoner covered his eyes himself. I believe that the light hurts his eyes," the Auror says and I feel myself being guided to sit down to a chair that has probably been conjured on the spot. I slump slightly in the chair but can't help but to feel relieved. I guess my knees aren't what they used to be after only sitting for so long and staying standing had started to hurt them.

"Well then, as long as his ears work fine," the man Dumbledore had identified as the new Minister continues to speak. "Prisoner 300595-D. In the light of new evidence and new eyewitness accounts, you are hereby freed from Azkaban prison, free of all charges. For the two years and four months you have unjustly been contained in Azkaban, the Ministry is hereby distributing to you a sum of forty thousand galleons as consolation. Does this satisfy you?"

There are some whispering in the room but I just nod quietly. The Minister coughs softly. "Due to the fact that you were still underage at the time of your imprisonment and in the midst of your schooling, you will return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to complete your education. Does this satisfy you?"

Without anything better to turn to or other place to go, I nod again in agreement and hear more whispering.

"Very well then. Headmaster Dumbledore will escort you to Hogwarts. The Key to your new Gringotts vault will be delivered to you shortly."

My name is Harry James Potter. Prisoner 300595-D. I was imprisoned on the 30th of May 1995, hence the identification number. It was imprisonment for a crime committed on the 24th of May 1995. Murder of Cedric Diggory. I was found guilty of this crime… because someone had to be punished. I was fourteen years old. Now I'm seventeen, freshly released from prison back into the world of dreams and fantasy, to await the day when the dream will end again.

--

This is something I wrote over two years ago when I had read too many Azkaban fics and they had started to eat my brains. Found it again, brushed dust off it (with my muse's help) and decided to post it just out of the heck of it.


	2. Sirius

**Sirius**

Twenty eight months. That is how long I have dreamed - and dreaded - of this moment. Well over two years. I wish I could say that it has been on my mind all that time, that no day had gone by without it popping into my head… but in the end I'm _glad_ that sometimes, for a moment, I could forgot. That there were days when I didn't think of this day. Or the day 30th of May, 1995. Or him. My godson.

But now the day is here. The Grimmauld place is silent and dark as we wait, huddled around the dining hall table, listening to the slow, tedious ticking of the old grandfather clock. Any moment now it's done. Any moment now Harry will have his freedom back. Any moment after that Dumbledore will bring him here.

How will he be, what will he look like? How will… how will he react to this all?

None of us has seen him in these past years. It was impossible not only for me, escaped convict, but everyone else since Fudge had strictly prohibited all interactions with Harry. He even made a law about it and wouldn't let Dumbledore anywhere near Azkaban. Because of that and because of all the hush-hush around the matter, we didn't learn about Harry's special living arrangements until half a year ago.

Isolation. Complete and utter isolation. I can say without any pride that ever since I heard about that, Harry has not left my mind for more than hour.

My hands shake even while I'm resting them against the table. Hesitatingly I clasp them and look up. I wonder if the others are thinking what I'm thinking. Remus certainly looks down enough to be thinking of it, even with Tonks at his side and with her arm around his shoulders. Molly is barely holding back her tears, Arthur doesn't look any better and neither do rest of the Weasleys. Hermione, Ron and Ginny are at Hogwarts, I can't even begin to wonder how they feel… but these people around me, these wizards and witches, members of Order of Phoenix, these adults…

No, I doubt they think the same things I think. They can't. They don't _know_ Azkaban. Not like I do. Not like Harry no doubt does, now. They think they do, oh yes, they look at me and expect Harry to be something similar when he comes out. But they don't understand.

I was in Azkaban longer than Harry was... but I had it easier. I was in a cell, I had a window, I could hear the other prisoners and see the sky, I could reach out my hand in rainy days and feel the rain - I could feel the wind and the air! And when things got bad, I could crawl under my so-called bed and turn into a dog. I could escape that horrible place into dreams of a dog because Dementors don't affect animals like they affect humans.

Harry hasn't had any of that. By what I've heard, he hasn't even had the room to move. He has been locked away in darkness in way I wasn't - and he's just a kid. He wasn't even of the age. What protection he could possibly have against the Dementors?

I wonder… if he feels like I did that night when I finally managed to make my escape. Does he feel that reckless triumph I felt when I jumped into the ocean in my canine form and swam to the mainland? Or is he like that unattached part of myself that didn't really give a damn anymore, that part that had gotten so eaten by Dementors that there was nothing left there to care?

I don't know. I have no way of knowing before he will be brought here by Dumbledore. But I fear. I fear that he has been lost completely and that the Harry Potter who stood before me and Remus that night in the Shrieking Shack and kept us from killing Wormtail will be gone. I fear that he will have no emotions or mind left, I fear that the Dementors have long since driven him insane. Like they drive so many Azkaban inmates. Like they nearly drove me.

I almost wish that he will come out through the front door and yell us. That he will be bitter and scream at us, that he will blame us for abandoning him for betraying him. He'd have the every right. No matter how we tried, we couldn't help him and I know how hard it must have been on him… it's natural that he will blame us.

Somehow I know he won't. Azkaban doesn't leave its residents the energy for that sort of thing.

We hear sound coming from the sitting room. I wasn't sure if Dumbledore would Floo or Apparate but I guess we have the answer now. As the others hesitate, probably not sure if it would be better to remain sitting and ignorant of the two years and four months in hell could have done to Harry or if they should go and see if they could help, I stand. Like in dream, I walk out of the dining hall and to the sitting room. I can sense the others following.

I step into the sitting room. Dumbledore in his brightly coloured robes and imposing presence seems insignificant whilst he stands beside the pitiful shape of my godson. Harry looks… better and so much worse than I even dared to hope.

He's thin and pale, but that was to be expected. His dirty, messy hair is hanging about his face longer than it had ever been - it reaches his collar bones now. His chin is still hairless, but it's so dirty that it makes little difference. Harry is still wearing his school robes, the very same robes he probably wore in the night of the third task of the Triwizard Tournament all those months ago. The robes are ragged and dirty, yet in rather good shape - testament of the fact that he hasn't been doing much in them. They are several inches too small for him now.

But what makes the vision worse is that he's completely still. It's not because he's fearful, or hesitant, or worried - or even angry. No, the way Dumbledore urges him to take few steps forward and away from the fireplace tells me that he simply doesn't know where he should go. His eyes are covered with what looks like torn piece of his robes, but that's not it, he could take it off at any moment. He doesn't know _if_ he should move. He probably doesn't even care.

"Dear lord…" Molly whispers. "H-Harry? Harry darling? Oh dear lord, Albus, what has been done to him?"

"Nothing, Molly, he is as well as he can be at these circumstance," the old man speaks with heavy, tired voice of old man who tried his best and came up way too short. "If you would, Harry needs a bath and clean clothing. I think he would feel better that way. Once he is cleaned up I will take him to Hogwarts, to the hospital wing."

I shake my head. They don't understand. Harry is dirty and the smell that hangs about him is vile, but they don't understand. He's been like that no doubt from the first moments of his imprisonment. At this point… personal hygiene means nothing to him.

"Y-yes yes of course," Molly says, stepping forward and hesitatingly reaching for Harry. "C-come, come Harry dear. We'll run a nice warm bath for you."

"No," I speak, because Molly doesn't get it. A nice _warm_ bath is not what Harry needs right now. "I'll clean him up. You just get some clothes for him."

"But Sirius --"

"No Molly," I say again and step forward. Harry doesn't make any indication that he's listening at all, and he doesn't even wince when I settle my hands to his shoulders to steer him away from the sitting room. That is not a good sign at all. "Just get him something to wear. I'll have him cleaned up in half an hour."

"B-but surely Harry would like a moment to soak in warm water," she insists. "Look at him; he's probably frozen all the way down to his bones."

"Just get the clothes," I snap at her and then push Harry past the others who are still staring with shock. They don't get it, and they seem to think that I'm acting somehow cruelly. I don't care. I know what Harry needs and what Molly Weasley could offer is not it.

Besides, Harry is a still boy even if he's been worn by Azkaban. I doubt he'd like being bathed by a woman, by his best mate's mother at that.

Soon enough I have him in the bathroom. "Let's get you out of these," I say and quickly start to undress him of the dirty clothing he's wearing. I do it manually, because illusionary touch of magic is not what he needs. Harry makes no move to stop me, only sways a little when I open his robes and let them fall to the tiled floor of the bathroom. He sways a bit more as I undress his sweater and rest of the clothes and almost falls as I pull his trousers off, but he still says nothing.

"Alright," I mutter once I have him out of the dirty clothing. I pull the blindfold off as well, and I'm not surprised when he squeezes his eyes tightly shut in return. I make no note of it, though, merely lift him off his feet and into the bathtub. I pull my sleeves up before I take the hose and turn the water as cold as it can get. He'll need it to wake up, just like I needed the dip into the icy ocean around Azkaban.

Gasp of surprise is the first reaction I get out of him; he even jerks a bit and pushes himself against the side of the tub. Good. He's not completely gone. I don't let him get used to the cold water, I merely soak him as thoroughly with it as I can, making sure that his hair is properly wet. Then I turn the water off.

"I know this makes little difference. I bet you don't even feel dirty, not really," I mutter as I pour half of the shampoo right into his hair and start to scrub it all over his hair rather roughly. "I didn't feel dirty either, when I escaped Azkaban. It didn't matter then, you know? Being clean, being dirty… it's insignificant really. Doesn't matter."

Harry doesn't answer, but I can feel that he is trying to keep steady under my ministrations. He's trying not to sway too much and tries to keep his head still.

"But you will feel a bit better in a moment. A bit," I continue, scratching my fingers along his scalp. Whether it hurts or not, I don't know. Harry doesn't make a sound. "And if nothing else, it will make others feel a bit better, having you clean. It doesn't matter, but for them it will be easier to think that you'll get better."

Once the shampoo is all around his hair, I reach for bar of soap and the roughest sponge in the rack. I should have gotten an actual brush, but it doesn't matter now. Harry doesn't even wince as I begin to scrub him clean.

"You won't get over it," I continue speaking. I know that some would have offered words of kindness and told him that he would get better, but I know better. I've been out of Azkaban for years and I certainly haven't gotten over it. And if sweet nonsense and lies didn't help me, they certainly won't help Harry. "Azkaban will stay with you for the rest of your life. I don't know if the damage it did to you is as bad as the one it did to me, or if it's worse. It doesn't matter really, either way the damage is done and the things you lost in that cell are gone. You won't get them back."

His neck tenses a little. Good, he is listening and actually comprehends what I'm saying. "But you will get better. A little by little, you will get better. You won't be the same you were before, you will always carry a hole inside you that can't ever be filled, but you will… live… again," I say to him while I push him away from the tub's side so that I can scrub his lower back. "Eventually you will even feel like you're living."

Finally he moves, turning his head a little. His eyes are still closed but it still feels as if he's looking at me over his shoulder. "Really?" he asks with dry whisper.

I almost sag with relief, but I force it back and instead I turn him a bit so that I can continue scrubbing him. "It will take time, months if not years. I still haven't completely recovered, so it might even take decades," I say, since there is no sense lying. "For a long while touch doesn't feel like it used to. You don't feel pain or pleasure, warm of cold, not like they're supposed to feel. But when you do, you'll know that you're on your way to recovering. And one day you'll even feel like a person again."

He's quiet and still for a long while. I've managed to scrub both of his arms when he finally nods. He doesn't seem either assured or worried, or even relieved, but as long as he knows it's alright. I smile to him, even though his eyes are still shut, and continue washing him.

When I take the hose again, I turn the temperature high, to the levels where it's almost scalding. He tenses at the feel of it when I start rinsing his hair, but doesn't try to get away from it even though probably burns him. "I know," I mutter sympathetically. "You know it's warm, but it doesn't warm you. But it will, eventually."

He nods, but doesn't seem to care.

Once I'm done, I help him out of the tub and to sit in a bench beside the sink so that I can brush his teeth and hair. Harry looks even thinner when he's clean. His skin is almost white and there are dark circles around his eyes. With his cheeks so hollow, his face looks like skull. Just like mine did before Molly managed to feed me enough. Well, hopefully Harry will be cured by some nutrition potions and months of healthy Hogwarts diet. No one can stay underfed at that place, after all.

"Sirius," Molly speaks through the door while I pry Harry's mouth open so that I can brush his teeth. "I brought some Ron's old clothes. They should fit him. I'll leave them to the floor beside the door."

"Okay, thanks Molly," I answer to her and begin cleaning Harry's teeth. In horrible way, he's lucky that he's so young. I lost couple teeth at Azkaban.

Once Harry has rinsed his mouth, I take out a hair brush and tidy his hair. The tangles are rather horrible, but I'm good at solving those - I had an Azkaban hair too at one point and I never cut it. It takes me a few minutes but eventually I manage to straighten out all the tangles.

"How about I'll tie it to the back?" I ask him without expecting an answer. "That way it won't get into your way." I do just that, taking my wand to conjure a ribbon so that I can tie Harry's hair. With his face this thin, it fits him rather poorly, but at this point that doesn't really matter. He can decide what to do about his hair later on.

"Alright, clean clothing next," I mutter and open the door to get the clothes. I vanish the clothes he had in Azkaban while I'm at it. There's no reason keep them, I doubt they're even usable anymore. "Okay, get up."

Ron's clothes are way too big on Harry. Harry is both much shorter and thinner than Ron is, but at least the clothes are clean and whole and seem warm enough. "That should be a bit better," I say once I'm done pulling his socks on. "This is the only time I'll pamper you like this, though, so don't get used to it," I add, because pampering isn't what he needs and he needs to know that.

"Now, before we go and join the others… I want to know something," I then say and sit him back to the bench. Then I kneel before him and take his thin hands to mine, which once were just as bony as his are now. "Are you bitter?"

Almost painstakingly he struggles his eyes just a little open. They're at the same time both brighter and darker than they've ever been -- hollow and tunnel like. "Bitter?" he asks softly. "Should I be?"

"Yes, you should be," I mutter with a sad smile and sigh while closing his fingers into my hands. Even after the scalding end of the bath, they feel cold. "Who do you blame for the time you spend in Azkaban? You have to blame someone?"

Harry doesn't answer for a long while, just looks at me like trying to figure out what I'm trying to get to. Then he shakes his head and closes his eyes. "Someone had to go to prison," he answers with something that looks almost like a smile, but nothing like it.

I squeeze his hands and close my eyes. That's exactly what I thought, the first few years before Dementors ate even that away and left me only with the knowledge that I was innocent and thirst for revenge. With a sigh I stand up and reach forward to kiss his forehead. "You'll get over it," I mutter. And I really hope he does, hope that he will find someone to blame. He needs inner fire like that, just like I did. "Now come on. I bet you're starving. Molly probably has some food for you."

He follows me without a word.

The dining hall is quiet when we enter. Madeye and Mundungus have joined the others, Remus looks even worse than before. Molly isn't here; the smell hanging about says that she is indeed making something for Harry to eat. Dumbledore stayed, he looks both better and worse than he did upon arriving. He looks older than he usually does; tired, worn… he looks about his age, actually.

No one says anything as I lead Harry to the room. He's still keeping his eyes closed as I direct him to the chair. With a wave of my wand, I douse the candles sitting in the table while lighting the ones around the walls. That way he won't have to look directly at the light.

"Harry?" Arthur asks carefully while I sit beside Harry. "H-how are you feeling?"

That's a both stupid and loaded question. Anyone can see that he's neither fine or okay or any other of those one-word assurances teenagers usually give to overly worried parents - or to Madam Pomfrey. But in the same time I know that Harry's beyond the point of feeling bad or horrible - and I don't mean that in the usual way. No, he's probably in the sort of state where he's been feeling bad for so long that he has gotten adjusted to it so well that he doesn't even notice it anymore.

"I think he'll feel better with some food," I say, even though I know that it won't help. The first week out of Azkaban, I stole some food. There was lot of it and it was warm, but it wasn't as good as it should have been. I couldn't taste it and it didn't warm me up from my stomach like I had hoped to. It was gourmet food but in no way different from the gruel I got at the prison sell. From that moment on, I settled to scraps and wild animals. Easier to get and pretty much the same concerning taste.

I still can't taste sugar like I used to.

The silence is heavy while we wait. Everyone is looking and in the same time avoiding looking at Harry. I know it's hard to look at him. His posture is horrible, slumped and weak, and his sharply protruding collarbones stick out from the collar of his too big sweater. His face seems stark white in the dim candle light, and the shadows under his eyes are even darker here. With his eyes still closed, he looks like he's in verge of falling asleep, yet the muscles of his neck and face are a little tense.

Yeah. What can you say to someone like that? Will you assure that the things are going to be alright? They won't be. Will you talk about school work and future careers? I doubt he cares. How about Voldemort or the war? Would that really matter to him after two years in Azkaban?

No. Better give him time and speak to him when he asks something. Before that none of it will matter.

Molly bustles into the room carrying a bowl of the same stew we ate earlier today. She probably reheated it, but that doesn't matter. Stew is good. Not because its easier to digest or anything like, but because it's easier to eat. No need to bite much after all. And he can eat more since its liquid.

"H-here you go, Harry dear. Some stew, it'll warm you up," Molly half stutters while placing the bowl before the boy. She places a spoon into the bowl and then urges Harry to take it. "Go on. You ne-need to eat and regain your strength…"

Shaking my head, I reach out and take the spoon from the bowl. Knowing Azkaban, he hasn't used eating utensils in over two years. He won't need a spoon. While the others watch with confusion, I take Harry's hands and then I settle the bowl to them. "Drink," I order.

For a while Harry does nothing, just sits with the bowl in his hands. Then finally he lifts it and takes a small sip of the broth. A collective sigh seems to run through the dining hall as he does it, but thankfully it doesn't disturb him in the slightest. Instead he takes another careful sip.

"I-is it good?" Molly nervously speaks again, probably unable to handle the silence. "I could add some spices to it, some salt maybe…"

"Molly, its fine as it is," I assure her. "It could be mouldy and it would still be hundred times better than anything he got in Azkaban. Stop fussing." It's not like he can taste it anyway, I silently add.

She sighs heavily and falls to sit beside her husband helplessly. Arthur wraps his arm around her shoulder and rubs her upper arm comfortingly. Then we all just watch as Harry slowly, sip by sip, drinks the stew. He only manages half of the bowl before setting it down to the table slowly and then pushing it away from him.

"Alright," I say and banish the bowl to the kitchen before Molly can start fussing or try to make Harry eat more. After Azkaban I bet his stomach has shrunken to the point where he simply can't fit much. Before anyone can start saying anything, I turn to Dumbledore. "Can I come with him to Hogwarts, Albus?" I ask to make it clear that the boy is getting out of this place and soon. If I can get out with him, then I will. "I can stay in my dog form."

Dumbledore looks like he's going to say no immediately. But then he stops and after a moment of thought, he sighs and nods. "Very well," he says and stands up while I pull Harry to his feet as well. "Let us go then. We'll Floo to my office and then head straight to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey should have some potions ready for Harry. Molly?"

"Yes?" the woman snaps her eyes up.

"You have Harry's vault key. Please go and buy Harry the things he'll need at Hogwarts. New clothing and the books for fifth, sixth and seventh year," the old man says and glances at Harry's feet. He's only wearing socks. "And make sure you'll get him some proper footwear, would you, Molly?"

"Y-yes, of course," the woman nods. "I'll do it tomorrow."

"Good. Let us go then. Come along Harry, Sirius…"

Twenty eight months I've been waiting for this day, I think while I direct Harry toward the sitting room. First I was forced away from Harry for well over twelve years and then, bare year after we met again, he was wrongly thrown into Azkaban just like I was. From here on…

They'll have to kill me to keep me away from him.

--

Yeah, this was a oneshot but out of the blue I felt like writing Sirius. This fic seemed perfect for what I wanted to write, so I did. I rather like how it came out. And since this was so interesting to write, I think I'll continue. Next one shall be Dumbledore, methinks...


End file.
